Ghostlight (The Reflected City Book 1) by Rabia Gale (i can read with my eyes shut TXT) 📗

Trey lunged with Sorrow, the sword an extension of his arm. The blade bit into the packed miasma, her power joining with Trey’s. The sensation was cool and familiar, tinged with regret, strengthened by duty.

The miasma stuck to the blade. Black thoughts crawled into his head: he never loved you… she should’ve been yours… what do these fools know?

Sorrow pulsed, and the miasma turned to vapor and vanished. Without missing a note, Trey made a number of small cuts in the air.

Narrow slits shimmered in the air around the room, drawing in the remaining miasma. It resisted; Trey made a sharp gesture, and the miasma was sucked back into the demonic realms it had come from.

The masked men turned and fled. Trey pinched the boundary between his fingers, slid into the Shadow Lands, and reappeared at the door, his wraith sword pointed at one’s neck.

“Stay where you are, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “I’ll have a few questions for you, momentarily.” He looked over their shoulders and flashed a grin at Blake still crouched on the floor. “Old fellow, you look rather worse for the wear.”

Blake rose shakily to his feet. Ember, pale and dim, clung to his shoulder. “About time you got here,” he muttered. “Sorry for taking you away from an assembly.”

Trey realized that he was still in tail coat and knee-breeches. “Never mind about that,” he said, as the other phantasmists ran into the chamber. First among them was Winter, runes flashing like blades all around him.

“Now, then,” said Trey softly, his attention back on the masked men. “Which one of you will talk first?”

“Twelve Saints!” Atwater halted at the top of the stairs into the outer chamber. The miasma was gone and the burned remains of the aeromentalist removed, but the wrecked furniture and acrid odor remained.

Atwater’s gaze was riveted to the scarred table top, upon which lay glass-eyed masks, leather pouches, and yards of wraith cloth. Spheres of black glass lay next to the pile. Atwater gave them a hard, suspicious stare.

Trey kept a bland expression on his own face. They’d disposed of the miasma within the globes, but Atwater didn’t need to know that yet.

“Have a seat, Reginald.” Winter indicated one of the great chairs pulled up to the table. They’d had to fetch it from another room. “I’m glad you could come. My apologies for calling you away from home so early this morning.”

Trey had to admire his supervisor’s composure. Winter betrayed no hint of his knowledge of Atwater’s clandestine meeting last night. Sutton had traced Trey’s spell on the man to a wharfside tavern whose keeper confessed to having rented out an outbuilding to a bunch of seedy characters. Morgan and Jem’s investigation of the place confirmed traces of miasma: eaten-away furniture, broken glass, and one shriveled, unidentifiable corpse.

Miasma was dangerous, as these plotters had discovered. Maybe the lesson would stick.

“We need to ensure the populace isn’t thrown into a panic over this incident,” Winter continued, tone measured.

Atwater relaxed a little. “Indeed,” he said smoothly, seating himself in a way that could only be described as regal. As a Member of Parliament he officially outranked the government functionaries in the room, never mind that Trey was a Viscount and Winter a Master in the Magisterium. “The damage could’ve been worse. I commend you gentlemen on your quick response.”

“Not quick enough,” said Trey. “An aeromentalist died in this very room.” A geomentalist and two other magicians had also perished below. He’d known none of them, but Blake had. Remembering the look on his friend’s face, he was coldly angry.

Atwater glanced at the pocked and blackened stones where Marius had met his unpleasant demise. “Most unfortunate.”

“And not something we need to spread abroad,” Winter broke in with a quelling frown at Trey. “As far as the public needs to know, the Mirror won’t arrive at the Keep until the Procession in about an hour.”

“Agreed,” said Atwater.

“What I don’t know is how the attackers learned the Mirror was already here.” Winter folded his arms.

Atwater shrugged. “I’m afraid in certain quarters it is more or less common knowledge. Far too many people know of the deception, and anyone paying close attention to the movements of known government magicians would soon put the pieces together. In your zeal to provide protection, August, you could’ve inadvertently shown your hand.”

Trey longed to punch the man’s smug face. Didn’t the windbag find his own posturing tiring?

“That is something to be careful of in the future.” Winter took this criticism with equanimity.

Atwater eyed the masks again. “What happened to the perpetrators?” he asked with a forced casualness.

“We detained them,” said Winter blandly. Atwater stiffened. Winter went on, “But, unfortunately, someone had planted a nasty death spell on them. They both died shortly after.”

Atwater made some commiserating noises that struck Trey as completely false, and rose to his feet. “If there’s nothing else to talk about, Winter, I’d best be off to reassure the prime minister and the Prince Regent before the Procession.” He rose to his feet.

Trey said, before he could take his leave, “You’ll be happy to know the young lady who suffered the accident from the runaway carriage will recover shortly.”

“Indeed, I’m happy to hear of Miss Trent’s recovery. Please convey my—” Atwater stopped as Winter’s eyes narrowed.

“Miss Trent?” said Winter in a soft voice so filled with ice and steel that Trey wasn’t surprised to see Atwater falter. “How come you to know the young lady’s name, Reginald?”

For a moment, naked terror was plain on Atwater’s face. Then he gave a little laugh. “Ah, I must’ve heard it somewhere, seen it in the papers, or something,”

“You couldn’t have,” Winter went on in that same cold voice. “I made sure to leave the young lady’s name out of any written communication. Only her family and a select few of her friends even knew of her accident, and the only ones to connect her to the pawnshop were me,